


Let You Put Your Hands On Me In My Skin-Tight Jeans

by aimmyarrowshigh, spibsy (lucy_and_ramona)



Series: The Original Sheyles Coffeeshop/Bakeryverse [1]
Category: One Direction (Band), Union J (Band)
Genre: Bakery, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Coffee Shops, First Time, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:51:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_and_ramona/pseuds/spibsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Completely self-indulgent bakery/coffeeshop AU with Harry Styles and George Shelley being adorable cuteface working boys who have crushes and then a lot of fairly dirty but cute sex. That's it, that's the story. **This was the very first fanfiction about George Shelley.  It might be dickish to put that in the summary, but whatever, we're proud of that.**</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let You Put Your Hands On Me In My Skin-Tight Jeans

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : We don't own anything. No claim of knowledge or veracity is made towards anyone in the story and no aspersions or claims of character are to be inferred. We have no connection nor permissions from One Direction, X-Factor, Simon Cowell, SyCo Inc., Sony, ITV, or Columbia Records. No libel intended.
> 
> ORIGINALLY POSTED [HERE](http://higherarrowsfic.livejournal.com/26271.html) on 19 September 2012.

** Let You Put Your Hands On Me In My Skin-Tight Jeans **

The bakery’s generally pretty quiet on Tuesdays. Nothing really happens. Harry usually just sighs a lot and stares across the street at the coffee shop in the vague hope that he might be able to spot Cute Barista George behind the counter. He can’t, of course; his eyesight isn’t that good and the windows of the coffee shop are ‘artfully tinted’ just enough that he can only see shadows against the glass.

Tuesdays, though, are slow everywhere. Even coffee shops aren’t immune to the barrenness that two o’clock in the afternoon brings, and like clockwork, Harry spots George pushing his way out the door of his shop. He’s tucked his hands into his pockets like he’s just out for a walk, but Harry knows this game by now. Sure enough, George crosses the street and dawdles for just a moment before pushing open the door to the bakery, bringing the soft tinkle of the bell above the door with him.

Cute Barista George wrinkles his nose and points up at the speakers, dusty and circa 1991. "Is this headache really supposed to make me want to linger?"

"Some people like Katy Perry," Harry supplies, already swiveling over to the rolls and buns. He always wears his tightest jeans on Tuesdays, although it doesn't matter much with how low-slung he wears his trousers at all.

"Musical diabetic coma whilst buying your real one," George says thoughtfully, leaning half over the counter so he can point out the exact roll he wants for his sandwich. "Makes sense, marketing-wise. Simon Cowell could do no better."

"He wouldn't know music if it bit him in the arse." Harry wriggles his own a little as he sets the roll in the toaster. "Have you heard Beacon's cover of this song?"

George gives him a very unimpressed look. Harry’s pretty sure it’s toward his statement and not toward his arse, but just to make sure, he bends to check that the toaster is very definitely plugged in. 

“Course I have, what do you take me for?” asks George. When Harry turns back around, George’s eyes flick up from their previous position. Harry doesn’t even try to hide his smirk.

George, by contrast, goes that lovely shade of pink in his apple-cheeks that Harry counts on every Tuesday. Cute Barista George is easily flustered.

“I dunno, what d’you want to be taken for?” Harry asks, casually leaning his hip against the counter. He flips his towel up over his shoulder and folds his arms over his chest. There’s a bit of a moment where he’s staring at George and George is staring at him and that godawful Katy Perry song is still playing in the background, and then – the roll pops out of the toaster. 

Harry glances toward it and when he looks back, George is looking anywhere but at him. Damn that toaster. He loves flustering Cute Barista George, almost as much as he loves mentally referring to him as Cute Barista George.

The thing is, Harry might or might not have asked around just a bit to see if anyone knew what the boy was about, and all he'd come up with for his knowledge was a hatred of moths (apparently the coffee shop had a problem with them nesting in the rafters and George had refused to go near them). He couldn't find anyone who knew whether Cute Barista George is into boys or into girls or both or neither or everything or what, so Harry relies on that telltale pink-cheeked fluster to be his dousing rod -- no pun intended.

“Here you go,” he states, settling the sandwich on a plate and then the plate onto a tray. George always gets the same thing. Harry would have his order memorized by now except for how George insists on getting a different type of roll every time. Harry’s not sure if he’s being difficult on purpose or if he just considers himself to be a connoisseur of old bread, but whatever keeps George in the bakery a bit longer is alright with him.

George smiles at Harry, and it's quiet and fond and just that bit shy where it tugs at his bottom lip between his top teeth. He has cute, funny little teeth, and Harry wants to lick them.

"Am I putting it on your tab or have you got money today?" Harry asks.

George, for some reason, hides behind his hair. "Erm, I get paid at half-nine, can come in then and pay up full?"

Harry shrugs. "We close at nine, but I'll be here sweeping. Just knock and I'll let you in, there's no alarm."

"If I ever need to steal Battenburg cakes, you've given me all the information I need." George takes a seat at the lone rickety table near the counters, right where he has a good view of the custard tarts and slightly filmy fruit pastries. "Erm, actually -- actually, I was wondering, at eleven there's a show at the Cosey I was going to see. Cricket and the Cave-Bats are playing with Karl Blau?" George's eyes disappear completely behind his froth of voluminous fringe. "If you want to check it out?"

Harry leans on the countertop, giving George an intent look. He tilts his head a bit to let his curls fall into his eyes, and smiles slowly. “Are you asking me out, Barista George?” he asks, amending his usual nickname so that he doesn’t scare off the wisp of a boy in front of him. He already looks a little like he wants to sprint out of the shop, anyway, so Harry quickly adds, “Yeah, sure, love to,” before that can happen. “Eleven, you said?”

George chokes a bit on his bacon-and-cheese roll and nods. "Yeah, I thought -- well, I'd come settle my bill at half-nine and -- erm, I hadn't thought much further."

"Well," Harry offers, "I'm generally speaking quite hungry after work... fancy a burger or summat on the way?"

George colors again, but this time Harry is certain that he's just pleased. He wants to make this boy flush rosy all over as soon as he gets the chance. "That'd be nice. I have to warn you: I'll smell like burnt coffee and sour milk. Might put you off your appetite."

Harry resists the urge to give George a good once-over and make a comment about his appetite being as strong as ever. He just barely resists, but he manages it. “Well, I’ll smell like old cheese pasties and fruit tarts, so that’s a fair trade, yeah?”

“I like the smell of fruit tarts,” is George’s mild reply. He’s still smiling, small like a secret. It’s a good look on his face, but then, Harry’s pretty sure George’s face can’t ever look bad. It’s against the laws of physics, or something.

“Not these,” Harry assures him. “They smell a bit like my gran and a bit like cats. You’ve never had one before, and be glad of it.”

“I’ll take your word for that.” George, who is very very cute indeed with mock sincerity on his face, picks up his sandwich and slides the tray back across the counter to Harry. “I’ve got to be getting back. My break was probably over ten minutes ago.”

“Well, if duty calls.” Harry sketches out an approximation of a bow, smoothly catching his towel when it drops from his shoulder. “See you round ten or so, then? For burgers?”

“Yeah, yeah.” George gives him another one of those smiles. “See you.”

Harry unashamedly watches George’s Cute Barista Bum as he walks out of the shop. He might be imagining it, but he hopes there’s a bit of an extra sway in those hips for him.

Cute Not-a-Barista-Right-Now George had turned up looking sheepish and a bit shady at quarter to ten, knocking on the bakery door with his other hand shoved deep into his coat. ("Thought I might get mugged carrying this lot," he explained to Harry after being ushered inside and revealing the fistful of money. "Upper-crusty suburbia gets dodgy at night for clean-cut white boys," Harry had answered sagely, and let his fingers linger over George's a beat longer than necessary as he took enough to settle up George's monthly tab.)

Harry takes the broom for a last run around the shop front while George loiters near his usual table, like he's afraid that if he acts too out of his ordinary, something will break. They've never seen each other outside of short lunch breaks and sometimes a wave or a nod on the street outside if they're both sneaking a phone call or taking out the trash at the same moment, and -- even Harry has to admit -- somehow, even seeing George at night instead of the woolly-gray afternoon feels _different_ , charged somehow.

Harry stows the broom on its rack beside the ovens and grabs his pea coat from the hook.

He throws George a smile as he shoulders it on. "Ready to go?"

“Well, I’ve _been_ ready, haven’t I?” George’s eyes are crinkling a bit at the corners even as he raises his eyebrows in apparent disdain. “You’re the one larking about, playing with brooms.”

“You’re hardly one to talk about playing with brooms, are you?” Harry tosses back at him, bumping their shoulders together as he opens the door. “I’ve seen your type before.”

“My type?" George asks, false affront making his deep voice slide into an even lower octave. "What exactly is my type?"

"Wildly attractive baristas," Harry answers promptly. They pause on the stoop so Harry can lock the doors, and George rocks on his heels with his hands in his pockets. "Thinking they can walk all over us common folk with their knowing eyes and intimate relationships with cleaning implements."

“I’m wildly attractive, am I?” George’s amusement is obvious. “What’s that make you?”

“Ruggedly handsome.” Harry pulls his lower lip between his teeth for a moment as he throws George the most blatantly flirtatious look he can muster when he’s also attempting to fumble keys back into his pocket. “Don’t you think?”

George's cheeks flush that pretty pink again, but he gives as good as he gets. "I'd go for more... hot and dangerous. Bakery boys have a killer reputation, innit?"

"Yeah, The Hunger Games did me no favors," Harry quips.

Harry is pleased when George understands the reference, and even brings up a point from the books -- some horrible, unfunny joke about whether Harry knows all the District breads then or if this is all for the Games -- and they talk about movie adaptations all the way up to get dinner.

George thinks that the best of the year had been The Dark Knight Rises, but Harry is still holding out for The Hobbit.

“You’re out of your mind,” argues George as he pops the last of his burger into his mouth. The determination on his face is adorable, as is the way he’s licking grease from his fingers, which Harry wouldn’t have previously thought possible. “There is no way a bunch of _elves_ put on a better film than fucking -- _Batman_.”

"I'm not saying Nolan isn't a genius," Harry assures him, shelling out the cash for both of their meals -- which would be more of a gesture had the money not been George's directly an hour before. "I'm just saying that the source material is stronger coming from Tolkien. And I'm not sure they did right by taking Dick Grayson out as Robin. I mean, who is John Blake supposed to be? What creative need did that serve?"

“Says the boy who listens, willingly, to Katy Perry." George smiles at Harry and his brown eyes glitter a bit as his breath puffs out in the cold.

“And who's your pop diva then?" Harry knocks his elbow against George's as they amble down the sidewalk, nudging at his arm.

“Queen Britney," George answers immediately. "You can't go wrong with the classics."

“I thought you had taste in music, good sir!" Harry widens his eyes and opens the doors to the ramshackle basement club. "Britney _Spears_ , _classic_?"

George holds a hand to his chest. “Right in the heart. You can’t tell me you’ve never had a dance to _Baby One More Time_ in your bedroom when nobody was looking, don’t lie to me.” 

The hallway they’ve been ambling down is narrow enough that George doesn’t have to move much to nudge his hip against Harry’s. It soon widens into a proper room, but George doesn’t move far from Harry, or, indeed, at all.

"I was always more interested in the whole 'Slave 4 U' era when it comes to dancing in my altogethers." Harry gives George a smirk. "I've already got the giant snake." Harry wrinkles his nose. "Sorry. That came out -- well, it came out how it sounded in my head but sort of... _more_ than I meant it. Beer to make up for the mess on your innocence?"

“I’m pretty sure me and my innocence are intact, but I’ll never say no to beer, ta.” George gives Harry another one of his crinkly-eyed smiles. Harry wonders if it’s too early to be in love.

The Cosey is the closest thing to a hipster club they have in this town: the floors are sticky, the walls are black and exposed brick (but not in any artful sort of way; more in the way that seems vaguely against code), and the bar serves beer either from greasy glasses forever stained by lipstick or in cans kept on ice.

"Boddington's Pub," Harry orders for himself, and nods his chin to George.

George bites his lip. "Whatever's on tap."

The barman turns to pour the draught but Harry makes a face -- and takes the excuse to duck in close and press his lips up to George's ear and whisper, "Are you sure? I think they haven't washed here since before we were born."

George looks flustered again and scratches the back of his neck, but he shrugs. "I just -- I only like drinking from glasses. Plastic and cans make it all taste funny."

Harry keeps his face close for a second, giving George a considering look. “You’re something else, you know,” he finally says, because he’s not sure whether or not George will consider ‘adorable’ a compliment. “Yeah, alright. I’ll keep that in mind, then.”

George looks absolutely pleased by this, and once he’s received his glass, he tips it in Harry’s direction. “Cheers,” he says before taking a pull of his beer. He’s got foam on the very tip of his nose when he stops drinking. There’s a bit on his upper lip, as well, but he licks it off with the end of his tongue.

Harry cracks his can and touches George's waist -- just a fleeting brush of his fingers -- and leads him up closer to the stage, away from the bar. The whole crowd are their age and manner of dress, a sea of skinny jeans and layered shirts and pointy-toed boots like Harry's scuffed favorites; there's plenty of room at the benches along the walls, but Harry just stows his coat because it's hot in the stuffy room and they move in towards the knot of the audience there to listen more than to mingle.

"Have you seen Karl before?" Harry asks George, leaning over his shoulder from behind. He doesn't crush close, because as fun as it is to fluster Cute Barista George, Harry really doesn't want to scare him away.

"No, I watched on YouTube one of his sets from America?" George offers. "I've wanted to see him for ages but no one comes here."

"I come here." Harry's lips curl into a bit of a grin. "All you ever had to do was ask. And aren't you having a lovely time? Aren't I the best person you've ever been to a dirty basement with?"

George turns his head a bit, his face suddenly quite a bit closer to Harry's. "I think you might be, though I haven't got loads of other dirty basement experience," he says, voice dry.

Harry has to swallow a bit before he speaks, as for some reason, his entire mouth has filled up with saliva. "You haven't?" he says once he's taken a drink as well. "Well, I could help you out with that. Not that I've -- there aren't many dingy basements in this town, let's say."

George entire face softens, and it's only then that Harry notices how tightly his eyebrows had been knit. "It's -- well, there were a lot in Bristol, but I still sort of thought I mostly liked, erm, attics and not basements when I lived there."

"I like the whole house," Harry says, gives George a grin. "Just the right whole tour, that's what I'm into. But yeah, I'm flattered to be your first mouse-infested basement. Not that I'm infested. With mice. Or anything else, natch."

"That's good to know," George says, and smiles a little around the lip of his beer, and if Harry isn't mistaken, George has actually attempted to play standing footsie and is nudging at Harry's toes and knee with his own.

Adorable may be a dodgy compliment in a grown man, but it's very apt for this creature.

"Is it now?" Harry asks, and slides just that inch closer to be sure. "I can have the contractor fax you -- wait, would it be a contractor who verifies that a basement is safe for... inhabiting?"

"I feel like the metaphor's died now we both know exactly what we're saying." George laughs, and his Adam's apple bobs, and the space of his clavicle's join between the wings of his collar is so pretty that Harry wants to bite it.

Cricket & the Cave Bats sound like they've taken their name too literally, and Harry and George spend half of their set with their faces tucked into each other's necks, jeering and hiding their laughter.

Harry eases his arm around George's waist, and he's so slim Harry thinks it could wrap twice.

"Hey," he breathes into the space (or lack thereof) between them. George's cheeks are flushed with laughter, his eyes sparkling with it. He looks so good Harry just wants to lick him, but he's not quite that nervy. He tightens the arm he has around George's waist a little bit. "D'you think that -- er. You know how I'm a basement and you're a basement, and we're both sort of into basements, basically?"

"We established that, yes," George teases. "Contractor and all."

"You're very lucky I'm not making a terrible joke about you inspecting my insulation," murmurs Harry, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "But, you know -- would you like to?"

George hesitates, and Harry can feel his pulse speed up pumping through his neck where Harry's lips just barely rest.

"Only what you're comfortable with," Harry adds quickly. "Can just -- erm, I don't have a better euphemism than 'walk down the stairs,' so there you go."

"No, I," George shakes his head quickly and presses in closer to Harry, just so their hips align. George is tall, which is nice -- but Harry is taller. "I haven't been coming in Tuesdays to buy your buns for months because I like the sandwiches so much."

"Good, because they're terrible sandwiches; I'd be suspect of your character if you actually liked them that much." Harry pauses to consider whether or not he actually wants to say the next thing he's thinking. "And, you know, you can have my buns for free any day, if I'm honest."

"Then give me my money back," George says, smiling broadly enough to dimple his cheek, his eyes sparkling happily with beer and music and the promise of sex -- or at least a good snogging -- and holds out his hand.

"Now, now," Harry laughs, and squeezes George's hip admonishingly. "Your fancy barista money keeps us lowly bakery boys in house and home. And X Box games."

"Ah, the important things in life." George smoothly settles the hand he had been holding out on Harry's shoulder. His thumb brushes the skin above Harry's collar, and Harry barely holds back a shiver. 

Their eyes meet, and Harry very deliberately leans closer. "I'm gonna kiss you now, if that's alright," he says, because he was raised to be polite, even to devastatingly cute baristas who don't properly appreciate Tolkien.

"Yes, please," George murmurs, and Harry has to focus not to smile so much he can't even kiss properly. 

He's glad he can focus on the kiss, though, because it's like everything he's ever wanted, a cute boy with kisses that taste like coffee with cream. It's intoxicating, really, the soft press of George's lips along with the taste of his mouth. Harry never wants to stop.

The little whimper in the pit of George's throat when Harry's lips connect to suckle on the fat bow of George's bottom lip only makes Harry pull him in closer. With the fingers of one hand splayed at the base of George's spine and the other hand pressed to his neck to feel the beat of his pulse, Harry pulls back only enough to breathe against the plush of George's mouth. He remains there for a moment, letting the tension build before he can't take it anymore and has to press their lips together again.

For someone who claimed never to have done much of this before, George is surprisingly -- and pleasantly -- assured in the kiss, his own long-fingered hands running up the swell of Harry's biceps and down slowly over the length of Harry's back, tracing the wings of his shoulder blades and fingers spread to soak up as much of Harry's heat as he can steal.

Harry does feel quite hot all over, flushed to even his toes, as he deepens the kiss. He hadn't at all been expecting this thoroughness, had expected to be predominantly the kiss-er and is now finding himself to be the kiss-ee. Well, that just won't do, he decides, sucking lightly at George's lower lip.

George, to his own turn, lets the tip of his tongue flit once, lightly, over the crest of Harry's mouth and Harry sighs, opening up to the kiss. He lets the hand resting over George's back slip down another inch just to see if George spooks, Harry's fingertips just beyond the border of his waistband, but George only nods as best he can while attached at the mouth to another human being and Harry chuckles against his teeth. There's more to grab than he'd previously thought from sight alone, Harry realizes as his hand comes to rest over George's little arse. He's glad.

George seems to like it a lot as well, if the noise he's just made into Harry's mouth is any indication. Harry's fingertips just reach the top of George's thigh, and while he's pretty sure this place isn't the type to throw people out who get too frisky, he's also pretty sure he doesn't want to give anyone a show. They both know where this is leading, or at least, he hopes they do.

"Hey," he says between kisses, following it up with a swift bite to the swell of George's lip. "Mind taking this back to mine?" Realizing how he must sound, he clarifies. "To, er, we can play card games." He wriggles his eyebrows a bit.

George pouts, and on kiss-ravaged lips -- already plump on a normal day -- and his soft, feathery fringe all askew, Harry isn't sure whether he wants to pet him or pounce on him. 

"Card games?" he asks innocently. "I thought maybe we could fuck a little bit and I could try blowing you in the shower."

The sound that escapes Harry's throat is rather embarrassing. "You're filthy underneath, aren't you?" he murmurs, his tongue moistening his lips. He watches George watch him, smug. "Telling you now, though -- with me, there's no way to fuck ‘a little bit.’”

George's eyes darken and brighten all at once and he presses closer to Harry, cocks hard against each other through their jeans. "I can tell."

" _Filthy_ ," Harry repeats, tipping George's head up even though he doesn't really need to and kissing him again. He keeps this one as chaste as he can, though, and then slides his hand down George's arm to link their fingers. "I live close," he says, giving his hand a tug. "Come on, before I ravish you in public."

They collect Harry's coat from the grimy bench, but George doesn't seem keen to relinquish Harry's fingers, so he just slings it over his arm rather than put it on. Behind the words, though, George's fingers are shaking just a little and his pulse is jackrabbiting in his wrist, so Harry soothes over his skin with his thumb and nuzzles a kiss into the side of George's hair, his heart flip-flopping in fondness and something like _pride_.

"Have you ever done anything like this, Barista George?" Harry asks in a murmur, so close as they begin to walk that he nearly trips up both of them. "Going home with strange boys who work in bakeries? On a _Tuesday_?" He chances a kiss to George's temple.

"Only in my head," George says, and his voice wavers a little through the bravado. "And about a pretty specific strange bakery boy. Not usually my type, I thought."

"Oh?" Harry asks, and pretends to pull away just so George will pull him back in again. "What is?"

"Mexican wrestlers," George says seriously, his eyebrows low and earnest. "Little-person kind."

Harry's laugh is the kind he hates, barking out of him with such force that it hurts his throat, and he immediately claps his free hand over his mouth until his grin is manageable. "You're awful, you know. Sexy and awful."

"Like you're so innocent of that," George challenges. "I see you through your windows at the bakery, flirting with everyone who comes by and feeling all up on the pastries. I know your game. That's -- well, it's took me so long to say anything because I didn't really know whether I was just another... fruit tart."

"You're not a fruit tart. For one thing, you smell nothing like my gran." Harry leans his head onto George's shoulder, but only for a moment as it's giving him a crick in his neck. "Let me tell you a secret: My buns aren't exactly... free to the public. They're pretty exclusive buns."

"But you have... sold them before?" George clarifies.

"Well, I mean, they're quite nice buns, aren't they, from a purely objective standpoint? They're just, you know, picky about what sort of filling goes in them."

"So are you -- wait, I'm confused by all the food metaphors and building metaphors now. Are you a basement of buns that filling and also lumber goes in, or are you the -- the other... part?" George asks. "Because I was sort of hoping that you were the, erm, that I could try, erm -- but if you're not, then, well that's okay, too."

"Yeah, I think we probably should've stopped with all the metaphors ages ago." Harry snorts. "Let's just use our words to say what we actually mean, shall we?"

And ah, there's that pretty pink blush that Harry relishes so much.

Harry smiles, shaking his head a little. "Why don't you tell me what you'd like out of this?" he says in a low voice, "and we won't involve food or building supplies at all. Unsanitary, that, anyway."

George opens and closes his mouth twice, like he's genuinely trying to wrap his tongue around words he hasn't ever actually said.

"I want to... like I said, I've never -- with another person, but I've, myself, at home, a few times just -- tried things?" he finally croaks, reddish pink to the tips of his ears. "And I'd like to try it with you. I want to _do_ it with you," he says with more resolve, "I want you to -- I want you to fuck me and I want your fingers in me and I do want to blow you in the shower, I wasn't lying."

There's that strange sense of pride, again. Harry hums as though he's thinking it over, when he's really just stalling for time so that he doesn't _sound_ as aroused as he currently feels. "Interesting," he says. "That sounds... very interesting. I think I'd quite like that."

George suddenly looks young and shy. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Harry confirms, a smile spreading across his face. "You're really very attractive when you say dirty things like that, did you know? I don't know anybody else who manages to be gorgeous while their face is that color."

George covers his eyes with one long, thin hand, and his teeth snag at lip again as he tries to grin and not to grin at the same time. "Oh, fuck off."

"I'll fuck _you_." Harry tightens his grip on George's hand and lets his voice go low and husky like it wants to. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

Even with his pink cheeks, this time, George's voice is steady and his eyes are absolutely certain. "Yes. The sooner, the better."

"Lucky for you we're almost there, isn't it?" Harry mumbles, digging in his pocket for his keys. "These trousers are useful for looking good and nothing else," he grunts as he finally manages to get them loose. He gives George's hand a tug toward the right building, ducking underneath the green awning to reach the door.

"Just as a heads' up, you may get mauled by an overly needy cat as soon as I open the door," Harry informs George, and George actually _giggles_ , totally overcome with the reality that he's finally with Bakery Boy Harry at his flat in the chill of night and they're _good_ at kissing each other and it just makes George feel like -- whatever else, the sex will be good, too.

Harry leads them along the practiced path to his flat with an easy lope. He hopes it's not just him that feels the anticipation building. It can't just be him, right? Right, there's no way it's just him. He's going to fuck the cutest barista in the world, and it's going to be amazing, that much he's sure of. Harry's kissed a lot of people, and he hasn't had chemistry with all of them. This, now, though... This is chemistry.

He fits his key into the lock and tries desperately not to think of it as a metaphor for anything. It's harder than it should be. Lots of things are probably harder than they should be, Harry thinks with a wince.

"Told you," he states when upon their entrance, a massive tabby cat begins prowling around and through and between their legs. "She's a nuisance."

George just grins and kneels down to run his hands along the cat's side and she butts her head right up under his chin, purring. "She's not so bad. What's her name?"

Harry shoves the door, always a little stuck on its hinges, shut and locks it. "Biscuit."

George snorts. "You really do like the food metaphors, do you?"

Harry rounds on him with his nose wrinkled and his eyes bright. "Well, I'm just going to decide you've a cat at home you call Mochafrappacaffachino or something, and we're even, and move past the whole metaphor-and-cat angle and into the intriguing plan you laid out for me on the way here, alright?"

The thing with George is that it's entirely likely he could be actually contemplative as he tilts his head to the side, but the way his pupils have dilated a bit tells Harry he's playing coy. "I don't know, your cat is awfully nice..." He can't hold up the charade for long, though, and he straightens up on slightly wobbly knees to pull Harry against him.

Harry melts into this kiss just as he did the other one, one hand sliding behind George's neck to keep him where he wants him.

When he finally has to pull back to breathe, Harry rests his forehead against George's, their flyaway hair tickling about each other’s eyes, and whispers, "D'you want to go my bed?"

George smiles and nods and nips at Harry's lip again, starting to muscle Harry through the nearest doorway.

Harry laughs. "That's my kitchen! You let me lead the way, and if you're good, you can see the kitchen in the morning."

George blinks and lets his fingernails just barely gently scrape over the bare skin of Harry's side beneath the hem of his t-shirt as he says, "I like my orange juice with pips."

"And you only drink out of glasses," Harry murmurs, and captures George's mouth again.

This kiss is different. Harry feels like everything's intensified, like all his senses are working overtime and he can feel everything, from the wet of George's tongue to the softness of the skin at the nape of his neck and then the grip George gets on his hips. He maneuvers the hallway without breaking the kiss, and kicks the door shut behind George as they stumble into his room. "Bed," he gasps. His lips feel slick and swollen already. "Bed?"

Harry smiles at him and quickly pushes the sheets off his bed, since they're not quite _ripe_ yet but they're definitely not new, as he hadn't gone off to work expecting to bring home Cute Barista George.

George tugs his shirt off and then shakes his hair out, grinning at Harry underneath it. He steps closer to the bed and tips his head toward Harry. "Your turn, love." He sits on the end of the mattress and looks at Harry expectantly.

Harry smiles and pulls his own shirt off to land in a heap atop the pile of discarded blankets, and he slides his belt off slowly, loop by loop, and sets it on his dresser. His cock is still hard, pushing insistently at the button-fly of his jeans, but he can practically see George's pulse through his skin the boy is so keyed up, so Harry just undoes the fly to take some pressure off before coming up in front of George again, bending to tilt his chin up into another kiss.

George's hands immediately rest on Harry's waist, his fingers feeling in some awe at the bare expanse of Harry's skin.

"Your hands are cold," Harry informs him in a murmur, then, with a little smile at his own cheesiness, "Let me warm you up?" He trails fingertips down George's chest before kissing him once again.

George nods tightly. Harry gently brushes his lips across George's jaw to pepper kisses beneath his ear and down his neck as Harry eases onto his knees between George's thighs. "Relax, love. You're gonna give yourself a heart attack."

He sucks gently at the soft skin at the side of George's throat, not enough to leave a mark, and George moans softly and lets his fingers trail up over Harry's chest.

Harry's tongue peeks out of the soft kisses he lands over George's sharp collarbone and down over his chest and skinny, fit stomach before Harry nuzzles at the top of George's jeans. "Okay?"

George lets out a breath that shakes before he nods, firm. "Okay." His voice doesn't shake at all. He moves a hand into Harry's hair, waiting for a little nod of acknowledgement before he pets it lightly. "Yeah, okay." He gives Harry a smile, and then moves his hand to plant it on the bed to better balance himself.

Harry smiles kindly up at him before deftly flicking open the button at the top of George's ridiculously skinny jeans and carefully undoing the zip. George lifts his hips to help Harry slide them down, and his black pants come halfway down his arse along with them. Neither of them move to pull them back up, but Harry doesn't tug them off yet, either, content to let George get used to all of his slowly.

Smoothing his hands over the sides of George's calves, Harry nuzzles the inside of his thigh and gives him a gentle kiss. He can feel all of George's muscles tensing and the slight bumping jump of his cock. "Okay?"

"You don't have to ask me that about everything, you know." There's a laugh in the undertone of George's voice. "It's all okay. Promise," he adds, stroking his fingers over Harry's cheek, and then his lips. "Better than okay." He slips his hand to the back of Harry's neck and leaves it there, a warm, gentle weight, but no pressure.

"For someone so picky about bread for his sandwiches, you're awfully blase about sex," Harry grumbles. He kisses the constellation of freckles that loops the pointed bone of George's hip.

"Being picky about bread gave me a chance to talk to you," George says, and blushes high in his cheeks. "But not being picky right now gives me a chance get my prick in your mouth."

"Mmph," says Harry. "You make it really hard to be gentlemanly when you say shit like that. I just want to lick you all over, basically." To punctuate his statement, he presses his tongue to the patch of freckles he'd kisses, licking up George's hipbone in a long, lewd drag. "Guess you don't want me to be gentlemanly?"

"Do gentlemen suck me off?" George asks with an air of almost politeness. He laughs, though, verging on a giggle when Harry yanks his pants down the rest of the way in one motion.

"I can't see why they wouldn't, with your dick so pretty as it is," Harry says appreciatively. He slides his hands up the insides of George's legs again and George exhales a long, shaky breath through his teeth, one hand still carefully rested in Harry's hair, fingertips playing at the nape of his neck. He has calluses on his fingertips, Harry notices for the first time, like he plays guitar. Harry thinks he would quite like that.

"If you could not gag me, that'd be aces," he requests, licking his palm and then wrapping one careful hand around George's cock. It's not fully hard, not yet, but that'll change in a hurry. He gives it a slow stroke, and grins at the noise this provokes. Oh, how he's looking forward to more of those noises. More of everything, really.

George's fingers flex and release in Harry's hair like he just can't help it, and his other hand moves from clutching at the mattress to gripping Harry's wrist to clenching his nails into his own knee as Harry coaxes him hard, fat and pink and shiny at the tip. Harry's green eyes are blown wide and black and dark as he nuzzles at the base, soft spirals of hair, before kissing his slow, softly licking way up to the head; George's hand slides up his own side, catching at the nub of his nipple before coming back down to hold Harry's fringe back from his face so George can watch, see everything.

Harry keeps George's gaze as he finally wraps his lips around him and sucks, just lightly, his hand holding him steady at the base. He closes his eyes for a moment as he focuses on sliding more into his mouth, the heady, bitter taste of pre-come on his tongue. It's been a little while since he's done this (sober, at least) so he gives himself a moment to get used to the weight of it before he begins to suck in earnest.

"Oh," George sighs, "That's -- _fuck_."

Harry has to pull back and slips a kitten-lick over the ridge of the head. "Stop making me smile. I'll bite you."

"I like a little teeth," George murmurs. "Just a little, don't go piranha on me."

"And now we're in fish metaphors," Harry says, and takes a minute to straighten his face and take a breath before sucking down again, beginning to work his hand in tandem up to meet his lips and down to twist lightly at the base. 

George is loud with his appreciation, which Harry likes, but he never sounds full-on _porny_ or fake: he's all amazed sighs and overwhelmed little grunts and choice words spinkled through like _fuck, that's nice_ and _yesss, take it_.

It's altogether too arousing, and Harry finds that he's shifting to get a hand on himself, grinding the heel of his palm down against his cock, aching still in his jeans. He flicks open the button of his jeans and slips his hand inside, caught between wanting to make himself feel good and wanting to hold off, make himself wait for it. He settles for maintaining a pretty steady rhythm of sucking as he palms himself, pressing down just enough to keep his brain in the heady, turned on state it likes best.

"Oh, god, are you wanking?" George groans, and when Harry glances up again, George's brown eyes are huge and mesmerized. "Oh, let me, let me, I want so badly to touch you."

"By all means." Harry loves this part, where his voice sounds like he's been eating sandpaper instead of sucking cock. The full body shudder that goes through George is a rather lovely ego boost, and he licks his lips before heaving himself up to join George on the bed.

George's hands are shaky as he pushes down Harry's jeans and pants all at once, but that's not surprising considering his cock is so wet with precome and Harry's mouth that it's shining. 

George hesitates a second once Harry's naked, though, and sprawled out beside him on the mattress, so Harry just smiles and twines George's fingers in his, kissing his knuckles lightly. 

"Y'alright?"

"Yeah, I'm just -- you're kind of amazing," George stammers, going pink again. "I want to make you feel like, but I don't -- "

Harry kisses him, first softly once beneath his wide eye, then down over his cheek until he can lick at George's mouth again. It feels like his own lips will be so red tomorrow, chapped from all of the kissing, but he doesn't mind. He doesn't mind one fucking bit.

He guides George's hand down until they can both wrap their fingers around Harry's cock, and George squeaks a little into Harry's lips.

"Damn. Good on you."

Harry snorts. "Thanks?"

"No, just, a bit. Yeah. You're welcome?" George has gone red again. Well, not again, considering he's been flushed pink this entire time, but Harry likes to think some -- if not most -- of that was due to his amazing oral skills.

"We don't have to -- more than this, you know, I'd like get off, but we don't have to like, do... if you're nervous or whatever, that's okay," Harry assures him, but George is already shaking his head before he finishes speaking and darts up to kiss him quiet.

"I want to," George says firmly, "And even your... anaconda-cock can't scare me off."

"Animal metaphors again," Harry notes, but his eyes flutter shut as George gives his dick a little squeeze.

George has a firm grip, and Harry's always been able to appreciate that in a person. He bites his lip against a moan that comes out as a whimper anyway. "If you're sure," he grinds out. He's not even sure what he's talking about anymore.

George seems to know it, too, because he laughs and clambers over to straddle Harry's thighs as he works his hand over Harry's cock, his own bobbing up obscene and pink and a little funny in front of him. They're both a little sweaty now, pale skin flushed and sticky, and Harry grasps George's wrist with one hand, quickly squeezing the base of his dick with the other.

"That's enough of that," Harry laughs tersely, "Unless you've quite changed your mind or want to wait like, half an hour."

George's eyes glimmer mischievously and he bends down to press one very light, gentle, chaste kiss to the leaking tip of Harry's dick, and Harry groans at the sight of him licking the precome away from his plush lips.

"You're a menace," insists Harry. "I don't know how I ever thought you were sweet and innocent. You're positively evil." He leans up onto his elbows to pull George into another kiss, hard and messy. "I'm gonna fuck you really good, love, promise," he mutters against his mouth.

George's breath hitches a little at that. Harry is gentle, but firm, as he lays George down against the mattress and fusses fondly with his fluffy hair where it's gone all triangular from sweat and friction and fingers.

Luckily, Harry's never stopped keeping lube and condoms in his bedside drawer. It does come in handy for moments like these, when he's got beautiful baristas laid out on his bed, inviting him to do naughty things to them. Or just the one barista, really. One's enough for him. He spreads his hand over George's stomach, sliding it down and then nudging at George's thigh. "Ready?" he asks, shifting his legs off to the side so that he has more room.

George nods up at him, eyes very wide and his lashes so long they almost cast shadows on his cheekbones and his _cheekbones_ are so sharp and pretty and flushed so pink with embarrassment and excitement and arousal all together.

"I've done -- this part before," George reminds him, his voice a bit small. "Just by myself, but, yeah. I've done -- I can take three and it feels good."

"Does it?" Harry asks in a murmur, stroking up and down George's thigh while he pops the cap on the lube. "That is very, very good to know." He slicks up one, then two, and three fingers, slowly as George watches. "You like it?"

"Uh-huh," George seems a little incapable of words, his mouth dropped open. He swallows, then opens his legs a little wider and wriggles his hips so Harry can lean over him, still-hard cock leaving a glistening line where it brushes George's knee. "I like -- feeling full like that. And sometimes I'd like, pretend a little that it was you, but like -- not -- not in a stalker way, just like, a you're really fit... way."

Harry smiles softly, keeping careful watch of George's face as he circles one fingertip over the knot of muscle until it relaxes enough for him to start pushing inside, just the one slender finger first because regardless of what George is saying, he can't have tried it all that often or all that recently, because he's very, very tight.

"Relax, babe," Harry says in a quiet voice, stroking the knuckles of his other hand over George's hip. "You're like a vice. Relax for me?" He rocks his fingertip back and forth, gently.

"Sorry," George whispers. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and that seems to help a little -- not _looking_ at Harry, not trying to watch this.

"Good," Harry hums, able to sink his finger inside up to the second knuckle. He leaves it there for a moment to let George get used to the size. "Good?"

George nods, his eyes still closed. His hands scrabble up Harry's arms and he holds tight to his shoulders.

"You're doing really well," Harry praises softly, and his finger slides the rest of the way in. Harry curls it carefully, just fluttering pressure, and George sighs like finally this is something he remembers, and some of the hard tension in his back and his stomach ebbs away.

"Yeah, just like that." Harry smiles, flicking his hair out of his eyes. "Perfect, exactly like that." The tightness and warmth around his finger feel incredible, and he can't even begin to imagine how good it's going to feel on his cock. He's getting ahead of himself, though, still has a few fingers to go before he'd even think of sliding inside.

George warms under the soft praise and compliments and the insistent, persuasive drag of Harry's finger inside him, and when he starts to move his hips in little circles down to meet Harry's hand, Harry starts to edge in the second finger, tucked tightly together with the first.

"Yes, yeah, that's -- it is good, I promise," George pants, chasing for more. "Just took me a bit to like..."

"I get it," Harry promises. "It's well scary the first time, and it's like, a bit weird at first. I get it."

George opens his eyes, finally, and smiles up at him, and the glow in his eyes makes Harry need to close his a moment and center himself before he says something really stupid.

"Okay?" he says instead, his two fingers spreading slightly to help open George up a bit more. "Tell me if I'm hurting you. Don't want to hurt you." He watches his fingers disappear into George's body with a sort of fascination. It's not that he's never watched himself finger someone before -- he's just never been so fascinated by it. Something about George turns him into a weirdo, he decides, and stops questioning it.

Maybe it's because he hadn't lied before -- there really aren't many chances for this where they live, and everyone else Harry's been with has been quite a lot older and it's nothing _new_ for them like it is for George. Or maybe that's romanticizing, and it's just that George is really fucking fit.

"Doesn't hurt," George whispers. "I want another."

Harry wants to ask if he's sure, but he's done enough of that by now that if George weren't sure, he just wouldn't ask. "Okay."

He dribbles another tiny dollop of lube on the last finger because it's gone all tacky in the meantime, and Harry bites his own lip as he slips all three bundled together inside, twisting a bit to stretch George out more.

It's, fucking amazing is what it is. He can feel how George will feel around him, when he's buried deep inside and wringing choked out whines from the other boy, and it feels like this is taking all of eternity when he wants to be inside _now-now-now_. But he has patience. He can wait. It'll be worth it.

His fingers are aching a bit from being pressed into such a tight space, slick as they move in and out of George. God, it looks so good, Harry has to remind himself that he can wait, because it'll be _worth_ it.

"I can't wait anymore," George whines suddenly, arching up off the bed and reaching down to palm his hard, slender, pretty dick. "I don't need more -- Harry, just, I want it, I want you to fuck me _now_ , please, please, _please_."

"Alright, it's okay," Harry soothes, and bends down to kiss George's hip. His hair tickles over George's sensitive dick and he hisses, pushing at Harry's soft hair. Harry chuckles. "Sorry. Just hang on a minute; need a condom."

"Need to fuck me," mutters George mutinously, but he lets Harry reach over to grab one anyway. 

Harry tears it open with his teeth because his fingers are too slippery, and carefully rolls it on before liberally coating himself with more lube. He's not taking any chances here, not when he honestly likes George, not when he really, really doesn't want to hurt him. He looks at George in question.

"Did you want to be like this, or -- It might be a bit less uncomfortable on your hands and knees?"

George shakes his head and blushes a little, and Harry has to lean down and kiss his face softly to feel the heat. 

"I'd rather, if it's all the same to you I'd rather it this way?" George says, but his voice inflects like he's asking permission, and this time, Harry kisses his swollen mouth.

"Just tell me if I hurt you," Harry instructs.

"‘Course," George replies. Harry doesn't quite believe him, but he'll pretend he does. It's usually pretty easy to tell if you're hurting someone when you're that close. 

He positions himself anyway, pushing his hands behind George's knees to move his legs up and out of the way. He removes one hand to guide himself to George's stretched, reddened rim, and allows himself a shaky sigh before he's rocking his hips forward in little thrusts, pressing past the ring of muscle and -- and -- _fuck_ , that's good.

George flattens his hands over Harry's back, just holding on at first. His toes flex up as a response to -- something. Maybe pain, but maybe pleasure, or maybe just feeling anything like this at all. Harry's cock _is really_ big, and it feels so much more solid and huge inside him than even three fingers had, but it's a smoother glide and George can tell, he knows, this is what was supposed to be able to fit in a body like this, even if maybe Slot A wasn't really meant for Tab 2.4a. 

Harry bites his lip hard as he thrusts in and out shallowly, opening George up more bit by bit and inch by inch, until finally he's pressed deep inside, George's arse flush with Harry's hips and both of them shaking a little.

"Wow," Harry breathes. He immediately feels like an idiot, but, really, _wow_. George feels amazing, and he looks amazing, panting and pink-cheeked, beautiful. He's tighter than he was around Harry's fingers, obviously, and warm, and brilliant. "Alright?" Harry asks as he tenses the muscles in his thighs to keep from just fucking in and out of George until he comes.

There's a bright shine in George's eyes like he's a little lost and confronted with something alien and amazing; his tongue peeps out of his mouth to wet the lush curve of his lip and he _laughs_ suddenly, wild. 

"I'm so good," he giggles, breathless and hands roaming. "So, so good." He twitches his hips experimentally and Harry groans, pushing forward to snap deep without warning. George groans low and guttural and surprised and he rakes his fingers through Harry's sweaty curls as he mutters _I can feel you in me, inside me, and god you're huge, it's like you're gonna cut me in two but I love it_.

"Shut up," Harry mutters, short of breath. "Knew you'd love it, filthy," he manages as he grinds his hips down into George. "So dirty," he says, the appreciation clear in his voice. He slides his hands up George's thighs, then back down to plant on either side of him. He lifts up a little and shifts back, changing the angle entirely the next time he rolls his hips in a slow, deliberate movement.

George's mouth drops open on a silent " _oh_ " of shock, and he goes a bit boneless against the bed even as his dick plumps back up to so hard he _must_ be aching by now, even more desperate than Harry is to get off. 

Harry rolls his hips again, thrusting smoothly into George with his knees braced below George's thighs for better leverage. 

"Yeah?" Harry urges, his mouth close to George's ear so he can whisper like it's a secret, and he supposes it is, something softly said in bed for only them to hear. "You like getting fucked like this, all sweaty and messy, yeah? You always look so innocent and young but you're a proper slag for cock, aren't you?"

George's gasping breaths in his ear are answer enough, the way he's blushing all down his chest and he's keening up against Harry. He grins, his teeth pressing sharp against the soft skin below George's ear. "Gagging for it," he draws out, letting his voice linger on every syllable. "You look so good like this." He holds George's legs open a bit wider, presses his tongue to the fair skin of his throat. "So good when you want it so bad."

"Uh-huh," George agrees weakly, putting all of his energy into arching into Harry's thrusts, rolling himself down over Harry's cock so it hits just right. "I need to come, Harry, _fuck_ , please -- "

"I like how you beg," Harry remarks casually, and shifts so he can wrap a hand around George's rock-hard, leaking cock and George growls, resting his ankle over Harry's thigh so he can keep fucking himself hard on Harry's dick. "It's so polite."

George's head falls back a little, his lips parting to swallow in large lungfuls of air. He tries to mount a snappy comeback but he can't focus on anything but how _good_ everything is, how Harry's fucking him at the perfect angle and stroking him just this side of not fast enough, and he's a prick for pretending like he's not affected by this at all because George can see it in his eyes and the way his stomach muscles are clenching.

"Please let me come," he gasps, his words trailing off into a groan. "Please? I -- I -- Please?"

Harry leans down and sucks a kiss over George's exposed throat, right at the sensitive spot just beneath his Adam's apple, and he blows a stream of cool air softly over the wet skin to make George shiver.

"You can come, love," Harry murmurs. "Do it. I want to see it."

As though Harry's permission is all his body needs, George's toes curl, his mouth opening on a drawn out groan, his hands clenching into fists as he comes, spilling over his own stomach, striping pale flesh with white.

That's all Harry really needs, either, truth be told -- seeing Cute Barista George so fucking wrecked beneath him, sucking in lungfuls of air like he's drowning in sex and taking Harry down with him, and Harry lets his rhythm get sloppy and selfish as he fucks into George five, six more hard thrusts before his hips stutter and he gets in deep enough that George gasps again and he comes, feeling the sparks and stars of it all the way down his spine and into his knees and elbows and fingers and toes for fuck's sake.

George's next breath comes out on a laugh, and Harry would attempt offense except George still sounds like he's being fucked, his giggle slow and sexy. "Fuck, Harry," he says, all drawn out, the words languid like the rest of his body.

Harry nods, panting a little himself, and presses a row of kisses along the pretty shadow George's collarbone casts along his shoulder. "Yeah, something like that."

He holds onto the base of the condom and carefully slides out of George's slack body. He ties a knot in the end and drops it off the side of the bed, trusting it either landed in the bin or in a pile of inoffensive rubbish headed for the bin.

Then he flops down beside George and the loss of body heat makes his skin prickle with gooseflesh. He chuckles, too, and looks over at George across the pillow. "Hey."

"Hey." George's smile is beaming and almost tender in a way that makes Harry's chest twist.

"So was that alright then, for your first basement tour?" Harry asks, and reaches out to run his hand over George's side just because the other boy is shivering.

"Yeah," George promises, and catches Harry's fingers. He kisses the tips of them and then, his eyes playful and challenging as he stares into Harry's, sucks down on one of them taking it all the way to the last knuckle easily, tongue fluttering. Harry makes an embarrassing sort of small noise and George laughs, relinquishing his hand. "Totally worth months of horrible sandwiches."

Harry would defend his sandwiches, but, well, they’re awful, George is right about that. “Like you could do better,” he says instead. "Coffee's easy. You try layering flavors on a bun properly."

George just gives him this sleepy, doe-eyed smile, and Harry resigns himself to losing every post-sex argument they might ever have. He throws one of the pillows at George, grumbling, "You'd better get over here to keep me warm," and smiling in satisfaction when George actually does.

Harry already knows that sleep is going to come easy (as it always does when he's got a warm body next to him) so he just pulls George close and closes his eyes. "Night," he says after a moment. Before he drifts, he hears it softly returned, and smiles.

Harry is exceedingly glad in the morning that they both work closing shifts, even if George’s does start about two hours earlier than his own. They wake up groggy and sort of stuck together and slimy and quite cold without any blankets, but George’s hair is so cute all mussed like like a birds’ nest and he cuddles right up to Harry when Harry mutters _’s cold here, you twat, too good for my dirty blankets_.

George just nuzzles into Harry’s neck and Harry runs a hand over George’s back and down over the slight swell of his arse. 

“How’d’you feel today?” 

“Dead sore,” George admits. “But pretty fantastic. Although I’m thirsty and I believe I was promised orange juice with pips?”

“In a glass, I remember,” Harry yawns, and he stretches to crack his back. “I believe I was promised a blowjob in the shower.”

“I’ll trade you?” George offers, and carefully hauls himself out of bed. Standing takes two tries, but he’s fine when Harry reaches out to catch his elbow in concern and George waves him off. “I’m fine. Foot’s asleep, mostly.”

George does blow Harry in the shower, kneeling on a folded towel to save his knees before he has to go stand for ten hours at the coffee shop. He’s almost as impressive on Harry’s cock as he’d been teasing Harry’s fingers the night before; he can take him most of the way in – certainly further than anyone else who’s ever tried – and he makes pretty, wanting-wet gagging noises when Harry comes down his throat. Harry kisses him and kisses him and holds him up as he jerks George off in return, slow, confident, steady strokes to ease him through an orgasm that seems to last _ages_ , and then they wash their hair and talk about Jeremiah Akin’s new “Demos” LP while they scrub up and dry.

George puts on yesterday’s pants and jeans but Harry throws him a stretched-out white v-neck that looks rather fetching on him. George smiles and promises to return it soon, but Harry just shrugs and says, _whenever_.

George putters around looking at all of Harry’s vinyls and cassettes while Harry fixes breakfast (beans on toast, because that’s what he has) and orange juice, with pips, in glasses. 

George kisses Harry with an orange juice mouth before he leaves to make the walk of shame back to his own flat and change for work. Harry feels, oddly, like the flat is too quiet all of a sudden and he puts on _Zebras_ to keep him company while he strips the bed and puts on fresh sheets and even a spare quilt his mum left for him that he’d never used before.

He heads to work a little early, and for once, he heads into the coffee shop before his shift across the street.

He’s not sure why it never occurred to him that he could go see Cute Barista George instead of waiting for Tuesdays, but really, it’s because he was afraid that maybe he was encroaching on George’s territory. That maybe Tuesdays had been all the time he afforded for Bakery Boy Harry, and it hits him with a rush to match the overwhelming aroma of coffee and hazelnut that George has been begging for a long time.

“Hey,” George says, beaming in his red apron behind the counter. “Fancy seeing you here, stranger.” Harry leans across the counter and, after checking over his shoulders for the boss, George kisses him. “It’s a nice surprise, don’t get me wrong. Did I forget something this morning?”

“No, nothing like that,” Harry says. “I’m just in the market to collect cute barista boys and I finally realized that I could come scope out the wares myself instead of waiting for them to come to me.”

“I’m… pretty sure I came to you a few times in the last 24 hours, Harry,” George says with an incongruously angelic smile and naughty wink.

Harry grins. “Cheeky. Can I get a hot chocolate?”

“Of course,” George says. He heads to the till. “D’you to pay or start a tab?”

“A tab, I think,” Harry says. “I don’t have money on me.” He leans up against the counter, hanging over the edge maybe more than is allowed so he can watch George wiggle is arse about to the music playing while he makes Harry’s hot chocolate.

“Hey,” Harry says, “Wait a second. Is that Katy Perry on?”

George blushes a little, and Harry’s glad that he’s still so easily flustered. “Maybe I’m giving her another try.”

Harry grins triumphantly as he takes the cocoa and steals another quick kiss before jogging across the street to the bakery.

That evening, when George comes in very tired and sore and more in need of covert cuddles than a terrible sandwich but still a bit desperate for both, Harry has _Oops! …I Did It Again_ playing on the dusty old speakers, and it’s Cute Barista George’s turn to look a bit smug and triumphant.[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


End file.
